Freedom To Live
His hands shut the blue doors behind him with a satisfying clack.
“Like the slip of a shoji door, if you do it properly,” he murmurs to no one in particular. “... how very frightening. Never quite realized how much. Good. That ought to be useful, later.”
The ground is greyish, he notices as he picks his way among the many boxes and lines and wires and old cracked displays.
His eyes find the empty place, finally, after a boatload of unnecessary walking.
Concentrating, he can make out the vague shape, the outline of the box.
Playing his hands along the edges, he finds the catch, unhooks it, then makes a quick look-turn around before peering inside.
“Don’t want to give any tenants ideas, eh?” he murmurs, chuckling to himself. “After all, it’s Chocolate Sunday! Nobody visits this Museum on Chocolate Sunday? Especially since the sudden ice age...”
He blinks, eyeing the figure in the box.
Drape of a toga.
A warm, almost sunny smile.
And a crudely-made sign that would put any well-seasoned turista to shame.
“And what’s your problem? Cat got your tongue? Ahaha!” he squirms out a finger from his whitely clenching fist and jabs it at the sign-wearer in the box.
“And what’s this then?” he adds, peeking in closer, one eye on the box’s lone occupant, one eye on the wriggling thing in those hammily outstretched arms. He looks in the strange silver Mirrors covering the inside of the box, and learns the answer in an instant.
Of course, he already knows. Kind of.
“Hello, Mehgudi!” he purrs, reaching in and retrieving the small package of bundled cloth, from which a tiny hand emerges, coupled with a smallish, fair-olive face framed in soft, dark baby fuzz. “Or Susan, I should say. Hullo, Susan! I’m your grandfather! See?”